You Know You Lift Me Up Dancing
by The Brat Prince
Summary: He's been swept up in James's strong arms ever since, which, yeah. Logan takes it as a sign that the universe hates him and wants him to be miserable. One day, sitting on his future-therapist's three thousand dollar divan, he may just pinpoint this moment as the most humiliating of his life.


**You Know You Lift Me Up Dancing**

A/N: Default_Dollie over at LJ requested Logan/James for her birthday after doing me a total solid and performing a beta for the OC fic I wrote breila_rose for her birthday. Girl gets what she wants. Tada! Uh, yeah, so Logan's dance instructor is basically Christophe from South Park. Idk, I come from that fandom, it happens.

* * *

There's a boy on stage, outlined by the hard edges of a spotlight. His hair hangs limply in his face, softened by sweat. His muscles flex and ripple beneath his skin, drawing tight when the song on his lips tapers away.

The drums kick.

The music swells.

He rocks onto the toes of his sneakers and launches off.

Gustavo pauses the tape mid-back flip. "See, that is not dancing."

On the spot, Logan's ears begin to burn. Falling back on his standard MO in times of trouble, he cuts his eyes toward Kendall and waits for him to defend the back flip's honor.

Kendall is snickering into the palm of his own hand. He does not appear to have any aspirations towards heroism at the moment. Great.

Logan mutters, "The fans like it."

"Yes they do," James agrees vehemently.

Ha! He totally forgot that James enjoys a good tumble on stage too. The two of them perform the fist-bump of solidarity, glaring at Gustavo all the while.

Kendall manages to compose himself, barely, before breaking into another fit of quiet laughter when Gustavo says, "I love our fans. But they are _idiots_."

"That's not very nice," Carlos chides, donning his stern face.

Kelly, who has been occupied filling out Gustavo's paperwork throughout this entire conversation chimes in, "You tell him, Carlos."

She remains utterly focused on the mountain of forms in front of her, but somehow manages to extend an arm and smack Gustavo across the back of the head. Logan wonders how he can get hand-eye coordination like that.

"_I'm_ not _nice_," Gustavo yelps, spinning his chair around to glower at Kelly.

She is unimpressed, already lost again to administrative duties. Gustavo's shoulders slump. He mutters something about respect and how he gets none. Then he resumes ranting.

"Choreography is an integral part of our show, and you –" he jabs his meaty index finger at Logan – "are really, really bad at it."

Kendall's laughter cuts off, the room emptier in its absence. In a wintry voice, he says, "Hey now. Logan tries."

Logan would be happier about Kendall's White Knight routine if he hadn't placed so much emphasis on the word _tries_.

Gustavo goggles. "He spends ninety percent of his time shuffling around stage. It's a concert, not a live reenactment of Night of the Living Dead. Do I look like George Romero to you?"

"No," James scoffs. "George Romero's handsome."

There is then a brief interim in the conversation while everyone except Kelly tries to prevent Gustavo from strangling James. The scuffle ends when Kelly whistles shrilly. The five of them lift their heads, attention drawn like Pavlov's dogs.

Kelly pastes on a benevolent smile and grits out, "I'm attempting to do actual work here. If you're going to be noisy, you need to go play elsewhere."

Incredulous Gustavo replies, "This is my office."

"This is your paperwork, too," Kelly informs him sweetly. "Would you like to actually do it?"

Gustavo's face falls. He swivels his head towards the boys and says, "Dogs. Listen up. Logan can't dance."

Kendall opens his mouth, prepared to jump back into the fray.

Gustavo holds up a hand in the universal gesture for shut the fuck up. "I've signed him up for lessons."

"Uh, last time Logan had one-on-one choreography time, it took Mr. X weeks to recover," Carlos objects. The traitor.

"All I did was try to teach him how to enunciate his C's. It's not that hard to say excellent correctly."

Gustavo smiles. That never heralds good things. Like, ever.

"That is why, in my great wisdom, I've signed Logan up for ballroom dancing."

Kendall's grasp on solemnity breaks. He devolves into raucous delight, burying his head in Carlos's shoulder in a failed attempt to smother the noise. Carlos doesn't even bother hiding his whoop of glee. "Is Logan going to have to wear a dress? I always thought you'd look great in sequins."

James presents himself as an unlikely savior from the mockery. He announces, "I look great in sequins."

Everyone gawps at him.

Oblivious, he continues, "Let's be honest, I look great in everything."

Logan's stomach sinks. James can't be saying what Logan thinks he's saying.

"You can dance," Kendall objects, eyebrows scrunching in bewilderment. At the last possible second, he adds a hasty, "Sorry, Logan."

Eh. Logan is aware he was not gifted with groove. He lets the insult slide, because he's got way bigger concerns here.

James lifts a careless shoulder in concession, but tells Kendall, "There's always room for improvement."

No, no there isn't. Logan stares on in horror.

Gustavo, meanwhile, hums his agreement. He says, "Every time one of you back flips on stage, a piece of me dies inside."

Logan begins, "James, you really don't have to-"

"Great." Kelly claps her hands, scowling at all of them, and completely cutting off Logan's protest. "It's resolved. James and Logan will take ballroom classes and all of you will _get out_."

Gustavo says, "But-"

He doesn't get farther than that. Kelly hefts a paperweight in one hand and commands, "_Now_."

They all bolt for the office, except for Logan, who thinks he'd rather take a paperweight to the skull than take a dance class with James.

* * *

Predictably, Logan's not feeling ballroom lessons. No one's tried to force him into a spangly vest, which is a definite plus, but he has a sneaking suspicion that his new instructor is a Nazi. Or a Russian ballerina. He's heard they share similar training camps.

For the eightieth time, she barks, "_Posture_," at him. Logan obediently rolls his shoulders back and tries really hard to make geometric shapes out of his arms. James grins down at him, because his posture is perfect, the bastard. Not everyone was forced into comportment classes when they were young.

Besides, he gets to lead. Because of course, this is a private lesson, leaving them with no alternative but to dance with each other. Prima Dictator took one look at them both when they walked inside the studio and declared that Logan was too scrawny and pale to play a man. He's been swept up in James's strong arms ever since, which, yeah.

Logan takes it as a sign that the universe hates him and wants him to be miserable. One day, sitting on his future-therapist's three thousand dollar divan, he may just pinpoint this moment as the most humiliating of his life.

They run through the steps of the waltz, Logan tripping over his own feet all the while. James is beautiful when he's all focused and intense. Can anyone blame him for getting distracted?

They turn a circle and Logan falters. James corrects his course with a steady hand at his back, but their stiletto-heeled drill sergeant has hawk eyes. She throws her arms up in the air and lets loose with a stream of Slavic-sounding expletives. The dirty look she throws them is dagger-sharp. "Ah'm goeeng for a cigarette break. Don't touch anytheeng vith your poor attitude."

James shamelessly watches her ass as she stalks away. "She's nice."

"She wants to eat us for breakfast."

"Sounds like fun." James waggles his eyebrows.

"If you're into cannibalism." Logan drops his arms, but James doesn't let go of his hand or his waist. It's awkward, too much closeness and not enough room to breathe. They touch each other casually all the time, but this is different, James's fingertips curled against his spine.

Logan tries to shake him off. James holds fast. He says, "We should keep practicing."

They could. There's a floor to ceiling mirror running the length of one entire wall so that they can see everything they're doing wrong. But. Frowning at James's pectoral muscles, Logan watches for the near imperceptible thud of his heart rather than answering. He has to look up into James's eyes when they speak, and he's never been more aware of it than he is now.

"Logan?" James prompts curiously.

Logan gnaws at his lower lip and spares a glance upwards. He tells James, "You didn't have to do this with me."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I know your mom made you take ballroom when we were in fifth grade. I remember your stupid penguin suits."

"We used one of the silk bowties to stop one of Carlos's nose bleeds," James recalls fondly.

"Exactly. So. Why the refresher course?"

The corners of James's lips twitch into a grin. He spins Logan in a shaky circle and tells him, "Maybe I just wanted to dance with you."

Logan shakes his head. He lifts their joined hands and plops his free one back on James's shoulder. "Fine. Don't tell me. You want to take it from the top?"

* * *

Three weeks in, and Madame Ruska doesn't like Logan any better than the day they started.

She paces one long, straight furrow into the wooden dance floor. "Mitchiel," she sneers, giving him the stink-eye. "My dog can salsa better zan zat!"

"Someone let you have an animal? Oh, that poor thing," Logan murmurs, making James snort with glee. He breathes his amusement into Logan's hairline, hiding it away from Hitler Barbie's view. Logan shivers into it, tasting James on his lips.

Three weeks of this, and it hasn't gotten any easier to handle James's hands all over him.

The instructor towers over them both in her rhinestone studded heels, her hair yanked back into a severe chignon. Her top lip pulls up in disgust. "You use your hips like you 'ave never known a lover."

She plants her hands firmly on Logan's waist and shoves his pelvis straight at James, forcing him to swivel back and forth. James takes it in stride, matching the tempo, swinging his own hips to the beat.

Logan imagines he can feel the heat of him through his jeans, although that's – stupid, obviously, James would never. But Logan definitely is. He's relatively certain getting hard when dancing up on one's bestie is a big no-no. He flushes red and squeaks, "This is making me extremely uncomfortable."

"Don't be a seessy."

"Yeah, Logan." James presses against him more vigorously, and what kind of dance even is this? "Don't be a sissy."

The heckling accomplishes its goal. Logan goes along with the slutty dance of shame – riding out his boner and trying desperately to figure out if James is sporting one in return – until Miss Soviet Union is satisfied. It's only once she's put some distance between them that he peers up at James with utter fascination and dismay, demanding, "Are you getting off on this?"

James's grin turns sardonic. "Aren't you?"

He arches knowingly into Logan again, which is so not fair. Logan never wanted to get all hot and sweaty and rub all over his best friend.

Okay, that is a complete and utter lie, since that's all he's wanted for years, but he never meant for James to find out about it.

"Stop messing around," Logan hisses, humiliated.

James drops his smile. "I'm not."

Logan's feet stall beneath him, tripping them both up. He insists, "Yes, you are-"

"Eenough vith zee cheetter-chatter," the daughter of the KGB calls authoritatively. "You can 'ave your journey of sexual deescovery later."

Logan chokes on his own spit. "How did you-"

"Ballroom is ze language of love and I see all," she replies with an unpleasant smile, punching her fingers towards her eyes and then towards Logan and James. "Now. Dance like you mean eet!"

* * *

Logan is mopping all his crushed pride and shattered dignity from his face when James's arms wrap around his waist from behind. He freezes, towel bunched in one hand and meets James's eyes in the mirror.

"What are you doing?"

Rather than answer the question, James responds, "We're all alone."

Logan knows that. He saw Lady de Sade run out of here, same as James, dressed in a glittering dress that she probably kept on with fashion tape and a wish, because it appeared to defy several laws of physics.

She had slammed the door behind her with a declaration of, "Party emergency. Lock up, and do not get love juice on ze floor."

James is obviously taking that announcement a little too seriously.

He drops a kiss against the shell of Logan's ear, forcing Logan to reiterate, "What are you doing?" He shoves away from James with minimal force, spinning in the circle of his arms. "Look, I get that all this staring at your own reflection makes you horny. But you need to back off."

"Why?"

"Because I'm not a girl?" Logan asks, wondering why that isn't self-explanatory.

"So?" James asks.

"So, you like girls."

"I like boys too," James tells him earnestly. He maneuvers them both back out onto the floor until they're swaying like this is a middle school dance. "I like you."

"Uh, since when?"

Logan wriggles and squirms, trying to put some space between them, but he can't quite break out of James's grasp. He doesn't buy into James's spiel, not even a little bit, because please. Logan would have noticed if James was into him. He's perceptive and James doesn't believe in subtlety.

"A while now," James confides, keeping his voice low and secretive.

"Liar," Logan accuses.

"Nope." James places his hands in position for a waltz, leading Logan through now familiar steps.

"What do you mean nope? James," Logan says exasperatedly, "If you liked me, I'd know."

"Maybe you're not as smart as you think you are."

James lifts their twined hands to his face, brushing his mouth across Logan's thumb.

"I am every bit as smart as I think I am," Logan retorts, offended.

James darts his tongue out to lick at Logan's fingertips and murmurs, "Then why aren't you kissing me?"

He has a legitimate point.

The dissenting voices of reason in Logan's head tell him that it's the worst idea in all of history, but there have definitely been worse ideas, like the Titanic, and Logan isn't sure when he's going to get this opportunity again.

At the very least, if James is kidding around, this will teach him not to.

Gathering his courage from the deep, dark place where it has cowered, Logan stands on his tippy toes. He arches across the space separating his body from James's and smacks a sloppy kiss against his best friend's mouth. James tastes like salt and sweat, lemon chapstick and a familiar, spicy thing beneath it all. He makes a startled noise against Logan's mouth, because he was bluffing, of course he was. James is too much, too gorgeous, too good for a mouthy little genius who can't even dance.

Logan's about to pull back, satisfied that he's at least shocked James into being a better person.

Then James shifts, fits their lips together so that it's less an attack and more a real kiss. He tongues his way into Logan's mouth and ropes him closer, pressing their chests and their thighs and their dicks together. The last coherent thought Logan is able to muster up screams that this mission has gone horribly awry.

James's lips are soft and dry and very warm. They stir heat beneath Logan's skin that melts against his bones like sunlight. He wants more, wants this moment between the two of them to go super-nova, to burn and burn until there is nothing left. It'd be so hot, everything reflected back at them, sliced open with light and shadow, and yes, yes, absolutely, he wants it.

But he also wants the way James pulls back so tenderly, nuzzles his cheek against Logan's and says happily, "Took you long enough."

There's plenty of time for everything else.

"Me?" Logan exclaims breathily. He can still taste James in his throat, feel him beneath his hands. They never stopped dancing, he realizes, even if it's little more than tottering in circles around the floor. Rocking back on his heels, Logan tells James, "How was I supposed to know you wanted me to kiss you?"

James rolls his eyes. "Right, because I was being really indirect. _Genius_." He punctuates the word with this fond little grin and a kiss to the corner of Logan's lips.

There's an argument to be had here, Logan knows it, he does. He's got countless questions spinning through his head, _when_s and _how_s and _why_s brimful of relentless curiosity. Only James is very distracting in that he's stunning, and he's taking this practice thing very seriously, guiding Logan through steps that were tread by countless feet before his, dating back centuries, but retaining their elegance. His posture is straightening out, his eyes sparking with mischief. When he presses his mouth full on to Logan's this time, it's deeper, longer, and it pulls harder at Logan's heart.

James murmurs, "May I have this dance?"

And maybe it's corny, but Logan allows himself this.

He whispers back, "Yes," he whispers back, "For now." He says the thing that reverberates beneath his ribcage, the one thought he's had for three weeks straight. In the brief pauses between each kiss, he tells James, "All I want to do is dance with you."


End file.
